by Alexa Aston
Epilogue
December 25, 1806
Steady drizzle could not mar the morning. St. Luke’s Church was ablaze with candlelight so the whitewashed wall and arches made of marble seemed to glow with golden light.
Caroline hesitated a moment before entering. She glanced at Julian who looked down at her and smiled. It warmed her from within. Julian carried her – their – son at his hip effortlessly.
Lucas pointed at the nativity at the end of the nave and they moved towards it. This year, the display meant more. There was truly hope of new beginnings, of joy, of family.
They got no further than the choir stall when Mrs. Camp, dressed in her choir mistress’ robes, spotted her. She gave Caroline a meaningful glance, a twinkle in her eye that guessed rightly at the reason for their attendance here today. They had not even spoken of it, but Caroline knew Julian wouldn’t object to them being married here in this church.
It wasn’t the largest of London’s churches, nor among the fashionable that attracted the great and the good to its services, but it was the place she was at home.
Some of the Mission’s regulars were dressed in their Sunday finest also and the most tuneful dressed in their choir robes, which included, to her surprise, O’Toole. The man had had a haircut and his salt and pepper beard was trimmed neatly.
More than that, there was a vitality to his face, his eyes bright and clear. She knew Reverend Camp had been gently steering the man away from the demon drink for some time, but this was the first time she noticed the change.
He leaned over the choir stall to speak to them.
“I’m right happy for ye, lass,” he said. “I’m wonderin’ if ye wouldn’t mind indulgin’ this old drunkard here and when the time’s right, givin’ me the honor of walkin’ ye down the aisle.”
Caroline squeezed his arm, unsure whether she could answer without tears. Fortunately, Julian answered for her.
“Then keep your calendar clear for four weeks hence. Mr. O’Toole.”
O’Toole’s hand shot out. Julian shook it.
“Ye do right by our Nightingale here and ye won’t find a more loyal friend than me, sir.”
Reverend Camp approached, his wife at his elbow.
“Good to see you again, sir,” he greeted Julian. “Am I correct in understanding you might wish to discuss a matter with me after the service today?”
“Indeed, sir, I would. I… that is Caroline and I would like you to perform a wedding.”
“Then let me do the honor of reading the first of the banns today.”
The first chord of the organ announced the beginning of the service. Caroline started to lead the way to their pew when Julian touched her on the arm.
“See who is here to join us?”
Filing into the pew were the Ridgeways, and next to them were the Viscount and Viscountess Carmarthan, accompanied by Alexandra’s brother, Phillip.
“Our first Christmas… I can’t think of better than celebrating it here together.”
The End
“Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we’re here for something else besides ourselves.”
—Eric Sevareid
Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Dark Heart
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About the Author
Elizabeth Ellen Carter is an award-winning historical romance writer who pens richly detailed historical romantic adventures. A former newspaper journalist, Carter ran an award-winning PR agency for 12 years. The author lives in Australia with her husband and two cats.
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Christmas Heart
Unmarriageable Novella
Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
Charlotte, the Duchess of Alvan, was in a foul mood.
Everything had gone wrong. Two days ago, she had quarreled seriously with her husband for the first time ever, and she was still angry with him. Now, she was cold, tired, and hungry, the baby was crying, and she had just discovered that the road to her family’s home at Audley Park was impassable. Snow fell like a curtain, shrouding the country in velvety white, but Charlotte was blind to its beauty. She wanted to cry.
“Only road open is to the Hart Inn,” the coachman told her after striding about the snow for some time.
“Then we’ll have to go there for the night or freeze to death here,” Charlotte said, wishing she had never begun the expedition. The dream of a warm, convivial Christmas Eve dinner with her chaotic family and an evening spent by their hearth with laughter and music, had died. Now, all she could hope for was a lonely room at the inn, enough warmth for the baby, and some food to keep body and soul together.
“We’ll feel better after dinner,” she said aloud.
Goldie, her maid, sniffed. She probably had a cold, although, of course, she wished to be back at Mooreton Hall with her friends, flirting with Alvan’s valet.
Spring, Charlotte’s small terrier, looked up from his place on her feet and thumped his tail on the floor once. He was unnaturally quiet and that didn’t bode well either.
The drive to the inn seemed to take forever. Obviously, it was only right, for the horses had to be taken care of, but Charlotte wanted nothing more than an end to this disappointing, miserable day with a long sleep before she faced the fact that it was going to be a desolate Christmas.
Serves you right, an inner voice told her. You should never have run off like that.
No, I shouldn’t. But how was I to know he wouldn’t even follow me?
At last they drew up outside the familiar inn. The Hart was full of memories for Charlotte—this was where she had first met Alex, and where they had been married less than two years ago.
The steps were lowered for her, and she climbed down into the soft, slippery snow. Spring, suddenly perking up and remembering how much he liked snow, tumbled out of the carriage in front of Goldie and bounced like a ball through the deep drifts, wheefling with joy.
Arthur, the tiny Marquis of Yateford, stopped crying, probably with shock at the freezing wind on his face. Or he may have seen Spring flying through the air and straight into John Coachman’s arms. Charlotte hugged Arthur closer against the cold and scuttled up to the front door of the inn.
It was rare that the innkeeper himself did not rush to meet her, but the reason was clear enough. The whole house seemed to be jumping with voices and laughter and fiddle music. A jolly Christmas Eve for some.
Villin, the innkeeper, stuck his jovial head out of the taproom as she entered. Clearly, he’d been about to yell something to his staff elsewhere in the inn, but at sight of her, his jaw dropped and his eyes widened, and not with the welcome she was used to. He looked, frankly, appalled.
“Your grace!” he gasped, hurrying toward her. “What a dreadful night to be travelling! We were not expecting you.”
“No, I was not planning be here,” Charlotte assured him.
“But is the duke not with you?” he asked, peering beyond her.
“No,” Charlotte said flatly. “And the road to Audley Park is quite blocked by snow. I’m afraid I must beg a bed from you for the night. And a cradle, if possible, for the little one.”
Villin’s gaze took in Arthur with something less than delight. “Bless your grace, we only have the one cradle, and it’s taken by a family with twins! But more to the point, all my bedchambers are taken, too, and most double or even triple occupied.” He tried a rueful grin. “As you say, all the other roads are closed.”
“Well, you always said you were a lucky house,” Charlotte managed.
Villin scratched his head. “There are two maiden ladies and a farmer’s wife in the best chamber. I’m sure they’d be happy to accommodate your grace, even move into other chambers if I can—”
“Oh, no,” Charlotte s
aid in alarm. The last thing she wanted was to spread rumors that the Duchess of Alvan was travelling alone at Christmas without her husband or any servants to speak of. In no time, rumors of estrangement from the duke would have spread all over the country. “Don’t pray put anyone out.”
“They would be honored to be put out by the Duchess of Alvan,” Villin assured her.
“I, however, would not be. Is there nowhere I can stay in relative privacy? All I require is a couch of some sort and a roof over our heads.”
Villin scratched his head again. “There’s the old stable,” he said doubtfully. “We’ve been keeping hay in it for the winter. It’s rough and not at all suitable for any lady let alone one of your grace’s rank, but it would be private at least…” His face lit up. “I can put a brazier in there for you, and my wife will bring you blankets and pillows…hot bricks…”
By this point, Charlotte would have taken anywhere with even the threat of warmth. “That will answer perfectly,” she assured him, though her maid could not prevent a gasp of dismay.
“You can sleep with all the maids in the attic if you want,” Villin told Goldie. “But it will be a tight squeeze! And the coachman can bed down with the ostlers.” He glanced at John Coachman, who was trying to hold onto Spring while the dog writhed and scrabbled over his shoulder to his neck. “Come with me, your grace!”
She followed Villin around the inn and behind the stables that she knew to a smaller, stone building. It had two doors, presumably for two horse stalls. He opened the first onto a spacious stall with hay piled up against the walls and scattered in piles all over the floor.
Villin scratched his head again. “Not suitable for a duchess,” he said ruefully.
“It will do quite well for this duchess,” she assured him. “I would rather have privacy than my share of a feather bed! And I won’t have you turning families out for me.” This was not, of course, quite as selfless as it sounded, but in truth, she wouldn’t have felt right ejecting elderly ladies from their comfort. “With the brazier you suggested—and perhaps a lantern?—we can make it quite cozy. Perhaps you’d have John bring my baggage in here, too?”
As Villin hurried off to do her bidding, she walked around her new quarters, hoping there were no mice. It must have been some time since there had been horses in here, but the faint smell of them lingered. A stone partition built above head height divided her stall from the next one. In this way, she supposed, the horses in each could have smelled each other’s company and been more comfortable, although they could not have had access to each other.
She could still hear the muted music from the inn. Charlotte loved music, but at this moment, it only added to her isolation. For she could not go in there. She could rely on the Villins’ discretion, but if anyone else recognized her…
She sighed and glanced down at little Arthur, who was grumbling again. She bumped him up and down, beginning to feel him a dead weight in her arms. “Don’t despair, my little one.” She gave a faint, sardonic smile. “If such was good enough for the virgin Mary and Jesus Christ, it is quite good enough for you and me.”
She imagined, however, that it was a great deal warmer in Bethlehem.
Villin appeared with a lantern and a small brazier, which he lit. Fortunately, it had a lid to prevent too much smoke escaping into the stable. His wife followed with arms full of blankets and pillows and repeated apologies about their lack of space.
“Scandalous to have any duchess sleeping in the stables!” she exclaimed. “Let alone your grace…”
“Oh, I shall be quite comfortable here, and so will Arthur, once he’s been fed.”
Mrs. Villain made up what looked like a rather comfortable bed with blankets and linen sheets on top of a hay mattress and several more blankets to cover.
“Only, what about his little lordship?” Mrs. Villin demanded. “Maybe we can find a box for him? Or will he sleep in the bed with you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Charlotte replied, opening the smaller trunk which was full of shawls, chemises, night rails, and other linens. She took out a few of the shawls from the top, then set Arthur in the trunk. He looked surprised but not displeased.
Mrs. Villin laughed. “He looks lovely and cozy in there! I’ll send over some dinner and a pot of hot tea.”
By the time the maid appeared with the victuals, Charlotte had fed little Arthur, lit the lantern, and done what she could to make the stable at little more comfortable. She had made a couple of hay-tables with shawls over them, one for the things she would need overnight and one to eat off.
“Why, ma’am, it looks so pretty!” the maid exclaimed.
Charlotte did not know the girl—she was one of the several maids who’d worked here since the Villins’ daughter Lily had left them to be married. And the Villins, with their natural discretion, clearly hadn’t told her the identity of the lady in the stable. With a selfish pang, Charlotte missed Lily’s optimistic presence.
Worse, she missed her husband’s. Alex would have been amused to spend the night in a stable. It would have been fun with him.
This wasn’t how she’d meant to spend Christmas Eve, apart from her parents, her siblings… her husband.
Damn him! If he hadn’t been so unreasonable, we could have been here two days ago before the snow set in.
But he had dug in his heels and refused to move, insisting it was too far to travel with the baby. For once, he hadn’t listened to her, hadn’t appreciated her longing, her need of her family whom she hadn’t seen since Arthur’s birth. Even his brother and aunt had made other plans, and his sister Cecily, of course, was in this part of Sussex, but as inaccessible to Charlotte at this moment as she was to Alex up in Lincolnshire.
She sat on the bed, and by the dim lantern light, drank her tea and ate her dinner off one of the hay tables. Arthur lay beside her, kicking his little legs and occasionally rolling over onto his stomach, from where he would arch up and grin at her with pride. He would be crawling soon and then she would have her work cut out. So would the nursery maids.
If she ever went back to Mooreton Hall. Would Alex have her back? She rubbed her aching head.
Have I destroyed our marriage with this mad start? But truly, he gave me no reason to isolate us. I am the one who knows Arthur best, and he is not remotely disturbed by the journey.
Justification was all very well. But Alex might not forgive her. Worse, their flight might set off one of his melancholies. He had been, mercifully, more or less free of this affliction since their marriage, but she had always been aware of the danger. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Until now.
She became aware of scrabbling noises at the stable door, then, a snort, some more scratching and a familiar bark that told her all she needed to know. Spring had escaped the coachman. She rose, going to the door, by which time she could hear John’s voice growling, “Come here, you little varmint!”
She opened the door, and Spring hurled himself at her with joy.
“Sorry, your grace, he got away from me.”
“So I see. You might as well leave him here, John, for he won’t give up if he’s in that mood. He can stay with us.”
“Are you sure?” John couldn’t quite hide his relief.
Charlotte nodded. “Good night, John.”
“Good night, your grace.”
Spring, having slobbered enthusiastically over her face, wriggled to get down and bounded over to the bed, where he stuck his nose into Arthur’s hand and wagged his tail furiously. Arthur grinned and grasped a chunk of Spring’s hair. Oddly, the dog was much gentler with the baby. He never jumped on him or licked his face.
The brazier was doing its work, and it no longer felt quite so icy in the stable. Even when Mrs. Villin and the maid appeared again with two hot bricks for the bed, a chamber pot, and a washing bowl and jug, the freezing air they let in seemed to dissipate quickly.
“Snow’s off,” Mrs. Villin reported. “And it looks like the sky’s clearing.”
&n
bsp; Charlotte nodded. “That’s something! Thank you, Mrs. Villin.”
When they’d gone, she thought rather drearily that she should probably go to bed while everything was warm. With luck, they would all sleep through the night. And tomorrow would be better.
She removed one of the bricks from her bed to the trunk and shut the lid to keep the warmth in. Then she put Arthur’s hat back on and wrapped him in several shawls before donning her fur-lined cloak and gloves and putting Spring on his leash. Picking Arthur up in one arm, she let Spring pull her out of the stable.
Just for an instant, it seemed too dark, too isolated. She imagined unseen eyes watching her. Was that the wind or a stranger’s threatening breath on her neck? She even jerked around to peer into the night.
As her eyes adjusted, she gave herself a little shake and gave in to Spring’s insistent tug.
It had indeed stopped snowing, although the cold was still sharp. Her breath steamed out in front of her. She had no free hands to carry a lantern, but she was relieved to see there were lights outside the inn to guide her if she didn’t stray too far.
Above her, the stars twinkled like the frost below, and she gazed up at them as she allowed Spring to lead her where he willed. It made her think of the shepherds watching their flocks and the three wise men following one particular star to a very different stable than hers.
For a moment, she imagined Spring hurling himself at such visitors, gold, frankincense, and myrrh flying everywhere. A gurgle of laughter escaped her.
“What a beautiful sound,” said a disembodied male voice out of nowhere.
Charlotte jumped and peered in the direction of the voice. A man was sitting on the low yard wall. Despite the cold, his great coat was open, and he wore no hat. He held a flask in his hand and a bottle stood on the wall at his side. A whiff of wine and brandy drifted across to her.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said uncertainly. “You should go inside out of the cold. You don’t want to fall asleep here.”
